November 18, 2015

Something Else by Nia Farrell

BLURB:

Grace
Murphy is the local psychic medium who dreams of her soulmates –Nico
White, a bisexual American Indian musician, and J.T. Santiago, an
ex-Navy SEAL and former cage fighter with PTSD on top of the guilt
that he’s still carrying from other lifetimes that they’ve
shared.

J.T. is a dominant, but he’s never had a male submissive
and Grace and Nico are a package deal. It’s a learning curve for
all of them, with J.T.’s initiation into MMF and MM relations and
Grace’s introduction to BDSM. With Grace’s yin, J.T’s yang,
and Nico’s center balance, the three of them come together as far
as J.T.’s PTSD will allow, but forging a future means healing the
past, however painful it might be, in an interracial paranormal
MMF ménage BDSM erotic romance.

EXCERPT:

With
the appearance of him,
I feel the shift in my own energy, like he’s a generator crystal
that’s amplified every sense, common or otherwise. My zipped
perceptions are razor sharp, dead on accurate, and delivered with
lightning speed. When half hour readings go to twenty minutes, I
start giving discounts and the line never ends, not until the ten
minute warning that the fair doors will be closing soon.

At
five p.m., one of the New Age shop assistants starts walking the
aisles, clearing the crowd and the room’s energy with a ringing
pair of Tibetan tingshas. I smile my thanks when she manages to herd
the last hopeful from my queue. Smile bigger yet when I see that my
Latino angel has returned.

“Hi,”
I say, sounding rather shy for someone who’s had no problem all
day, delving deep into other people’s lives and issues.

His
lips tuck upward, and he nods his head toward the back of the room.
“I promised my cousin I’d help her. Lena says it’ll take an
hour.”

Lena.
Pretty face, rocking body, bedroom hair, tats. Amazing silver jewelry
and unique leather goods. “I like her.” Actually, I envy her. I
have gifts, but Lena has the skills to make her visions a reality.
It’s what sets her stuff apart.

“She’s
got to get home. Sick kid,” he explains. “Daddy’s challenged
enough when Ariana’s a healthy two-year-old. I’ll be free once
Lena’s on the road. Will you be around? I can meet you somewhere.
We could grab a bite to eat. Talk. If not tonight, then later.”

Déjà
vu. Six months ago,
I’d said nearly the same things to Nico.

I
suggest O’Toole’s, two blocks east. “Do you know it?”

He
nods grudgingly, clearly not a fan of the Irish pub. Sensitive to his
inner turmoil, I offer an alternative. “Or Jerry’s?” It’s a
local bar and grill, edgier than sports and just shy of biker bar.

God,
his smile. I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven.

“Jerry’s,”
he says. “In an hour or so.”

I’m
still processing when Nico comes to check on me. He’s moved our
vending van and already has his stuff loaded, and I’ve done almost
squat.

“Hey.”
He touches me, sliding his darker fingers up my ivory arms until they
reach my elbows. When his thumbs start rubbing circles in the bend of
each arm, my root chakra kicks into overdrive, and my fucking knees
grow weak.

“He’s
here,” I whisper, damn close to trembling. “He’s meeting us at
Jerry’s after six. Help me pack so we can go get a table.”

That
time of night, on a Saturday, there’s usually a line out the door
one or two blocks long. I know I have spiritual helping hands at work
when we get there and are seated at a booth in the quieter back with
only a fifteen minute wait.

I’ve
said nothing more to Nico about Lena’s cousin. It occurs to me that
I never asked and he never offered his name. We’ll all know each
other soon enough, and way beyond a first-name basis.

Our
waitress, Cherry, slides coasters on the table and sets down our
drinks, a bottle of pseudo beer for Nico and a glass of orange juice
for me. I don’t want anything, either brewed from nature or crafted
in a chemistry lab, to dull my senses tonight. No alcohol. No soda.
Juice and water it is.

A
menu sits to my right, waiting for him to show. Across from me, Nico
scans both sides of the laminated page and sets it down, his decision
already made. I take longer, wrestling with my baser meat-loving self
when I know I should shun it, but really, where’s the fun in that?
I turned vegan once in high school. It lasted all of two weeks, but I
stayed quasi-vegetarian for three years. Dairy, eggs, and seafood
gave me the protein I craved, but it took cutting out the warm
blooded meat to raise my vibration and get it to where I needed it to
be. Because that’s when the dreams started. Visions of the past
lives we’ve shared. Memories of the three of us.

Poised
on the brink of our next go-round, I have to wonder why we keep
coming back like this, like frigging musketeers. Is it because we’re
stronger together, or dysfunctional apart? Jesus, I’d like to think
I don’t need them, but I know how much more, how much stronger I am
since meeting Nico. My body thrums to think of what it will be like
to have both of them with me.

Nia
Farrell has been writing for pleasure since junior high. Now that
she writes about
pleasure, she can share the fantasy worlds she visits and introduce
readers to characters who remain with her long after their tales are
told.

When
crafting a story, Nia draws upon a rich diversity of life
experiences, which include singer/songwriter, prize winning needle
artist, private pilot, Reiki Master/Teacher, crystal healer, psychic
fair reader, jewelry maker, physician’s assistant, factory worker,
waitress, genealogist, period reenactor, and children’s author. If
this life isn’t enough, there are plenty of others to choose from.
Otherwise, she devotes hours of research to subjects outside her
realm, determined that her stories ring true.

Nia
lives on a farm in Southern Illinois (far, far from Chicago, in the
heart of “Little Egypt”). A seventh generation Illinoisan, she
is descended from Mayflower Pilgrims, American soldiers from the
Revolutionary War to World War II, and Scottish nobility. She enjoys
playing in the past and visits Ren fairs and historical reenactments
in period attire, sharing her love of history and her passion for
music. While her husband and two grown daughters may only read her
nonfiction work, she appreciates their support in pursuing her
dreams, one of which is being published in erotic romance.